Into the Storm (22 page)

T
he passengers — feeling stiff and awkward after so many days upon a continually pitching and yawing ship — found it difficult to adjust to the stationary wharf. Not that anyone was afforded the luxury of remaining still for long.

All seemed in chaos about them. Amid carts and wagons, mounds of boxes, crates, and barrels, some people embraced in grand reunions while others tried to assemble large families and what goods they still possessed. Runners — as in Liverpool — darted here and there, cajoling newcomers into lodgings. There were even baggage grabbers, thieves attempting to steal from the bewildered immigrants.

Mr. Drabble, attuned to his role as leader, shepherded the O'Connells to a relatively clear space. “‘Oh brave new world, that has such people in't!'” he quoted in a burst of enthusiasm. But while he meant to speak triumphantly, the phrase sounded hollow.

Laurence kept gaping about at everything, signs, people, buildings. But all he could think of was that he was at last free of the ship. “I am in America,” he kept murmuring.

Bridy clung to Maura's shawl, but the older girl hardly noticed. She and Patrick were searching eagerly for some sign of their father.

Abruptly a young man appeared before them. “Can I help you find a lodging, folks?” he cried. “I know the best. The cheapest.”

There was something about his brash and patently false cheerfulness that made the O'Connells as well as Mr. Drabble think instantly of Ralph Toggs.

“Be off with you!” the actor replied with furious indignation.

Startled by such vehemence, the young man shrugged and spit upon the ground. Muttering, “Filthy Paddies,” he went off to corral another group of immigrants.

“Runners here too,” Mr. Drabble said with disgust.

The day edged into dusk. The air grew chill, the wood of the wharf slick with mist. Dockside lamps were lit. Though the
Robert Peel
was still being unloaded of cargo, most of the immigrants had long dispersed. But Mr. O'Connell had yet to appear.

“Have you considered what might have happened to your father, Miss O'Connell?” Mr. Drabble asked.

Maura was so upset, she could only shake her head.

Patrick, wishing the actor would leave them, said, “He'll be here soon.”

“I'm sure he will,” Mr. Drabble replied, wanting with all his heart to be a comfort to Maura. The possibility that he might still be needed was impossible to resist. “You need not worry, my dear,” he offered. “I'll not abandon you.”

Maura bridled. “Mr. Drabble,” she snapped, “now that we're here, there's no need for you and Laurence to be lingering on. I don't doubt but you want to go off for yourselves.”

Turning pale, Mr. Drabble snatched off his hat and executed one of his deepest bows. “Miss O'Connell,” he said in a trembling voice, “do you think I would leave you in such a parlous situation? How could I? Not after all we've gone through together.”

The gallantry of the man only irritated Maura more. “In faith, Mr. Drabble,” she cried, “you shouldn't concern yourself. My father will be here soon. Haven't I said there's no need of you!”

Mr. Drabble drew back. “Miss O'Connell,” he managed to say, “I have no wish to offend you by my presence.”

As tears flooded his eyes, he turned to Laurence. “Very well, my boy,” he said in a breaking voice, “it's time for us to make our final farewells. ‘Parting is such sweet …,'” he began to recite, only to have his voice crumble with emotion.
Incapable of further speech, and pressing his volume of Shakespeare to his heart, the actor turned about and attempted to walk away with as much composure as he could muster.

Laurence, suddenly confronted with this abrupt leave-taking, looked to Patrick with dismay. “G-G-Good-bye,” he stammered.

“Laurence,” Patrick replied, “you mustn't forget we'll be in Lowell.”

Though Laurence was desperate to say something more, he found no words to speak. All he could do was turn and run after Mr. Drabble.

Maura, watching the two go off, felt her heart plummet. “Mr. Drabble!” she blurted out.
“Sure, I didn't mean —” Remorseful, she ran a few steps after him. “I was not myself, Mr. Drabble. You must forgive me!”

The actor's pride had deafened him. Unswerving, he continued to march off the wharf.

Maura made her way quickly back to Patrick and Bridy. Fighting tears, she drew her shawl tightly about her. “We'll wait right here,” she said, “where Da will find us.”

L
aurence hurried after Mr. Drabble. Once, twice, three times, the boy glanced back at Patrick, the only person in the world he considered his friend. He would have given anything to stay with him. But Laurence had nothing to give, and Mr. Drabble, propelled by his humiliation, was striding rapidly off.

For his part, the actor kept asking, How could Maura have been so cruel, so ungrateful? He hardly knew which he felt more, grief or fury. And now that he was in America, a
terrible question beat against him:
What was he to do?
He had not the slightest idea.

Before them lay the crowded city of Boston. Both Mr. Drabble and Laurence stared at it. Gas street lamps were glowing. Candles and lanterns gleamed from countless windows.

“Where are we going?” Laurence asked.

Mr. Drabble looked down at him, trying to comprehend not just the question, but the person who had asked it. Why is this boy with me? Mr. Drabble fretted, deeply regretting that he'd brought him along.

“Do we have a place to go?” Laurence wondered aloud.

Mr. Drabble, to cover his confusion, mumbled, “A friend …” Turning, he gazed upon the great numbers of people rushing by, all of whom — in his eyes — seemed to know exactly where they were going. He was certain that he alone — in all the world — was lost.

He closed his eyes. “I am in America,” he murmured to himself. “The promised land. Where everything is different.” He repeated the phrases as though they were a prayer, letting the ideas stir him, fill him. Then he dredged up a line from his Shakespeare: “‘The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.'” The words comforted him, calmed him. Taking a deep breath, he vowed he would become a new man. And he would begin by putting Maura O'Connell out of his mind.

Mr. Drabble hailed the next person who passed. “Excuse me, sir, but I'm looking for The Liberty Tree Inn,” he said. “Can you help me?”

“Just up there, half a block,” the man replied, pointing the way.

The inn was easily reached. Mr. Drabble pushed through the double doors beneath the painted sign and stepped into the taproom. It was just as crowded and noisy as when Mr. Grout had arrived earlier in the day. The stench of liquor was thick, while clouds of tobacco smoke had reached thunderhead proportions.

For Laurence — who had spent so much time alone — the sight of so many people pressed into the confines of one room,
talking and arguing all at once, was overwhelming. He had to stop at the threshold. Mr. Drabble said, “Wait here,” made his way through to the bar, and addressed the man working there.

“Excuse me, my good man,” he said. “A friend is lodging here. I'm supposed to join him. Would you be kind enough to tell me where I'll find him?”

“What's his name?” the man asked.

“Grout. Mr. Toby Grout.”

“Englishman with an eye patch?”

Mr. Drabble nodded.

“Third floor, room sixteen. Take those stairs,” he said, indicating the steps at the far side of the room and providing Mr. Drabble with a lighted candle to help him find his way.

Collecting Laurence, Mr. Drabble began to climb, the candle's flickering light just enough to illuminate the narrow steps while creating grotesque shadows behind. At the third floor, the actor entered a gloomy hallway of many doors, upon each of which a number had been crudely painted.

“Here we are.” As Mr. Drabble knocked, Laurence, feeling shy, stepped behind him.

From inside a voice called, “Who is it?”

“It's me, Horatio Drabble!”

The door was pulled open. “There you are,” Mr. Grout cried. “I've been wonderin' wot 'appened to yer.”

“The ship was late coming in,” Mr. Drabble explained. “I've only just arrived.”

“Don't yer worry none,” Mr. Grout assured him. “I didn't give up on yer. Just step in so I can tell yer some amazin' news.”

Mr. Drabble hesitated. “I need to tell you that I've brought someone.”

Mr. Grout grinned. “Yer gal?” he asked.

The actor blushed. “N-N-Not at all,” he stammered. “It's this boy.” So saying, he stepped to one side and held up the candle. “His name is Laurence, and I should explain —”

Mr. Grout took one look and shrieked, “
It
'
s him!
”

T
here, to Laurence's utter astonishment, stood Mr. Toby Grout.

“Why — what's the matter?” asked the baffled actor, turning from Laurence's look of shock to Mr. Grout's look of terror.

“Take 'im away!” Mr. Grout wailed from the depths of his soul. “Take 'im away!”

“Take whom away?”

“The ghost!”

“My good man,” Mr. Drabble sputtered in confusion, “what are you talking about? There is no ghost.”

“'E's standin' by yer side!”

When Laurence grasped the fact that it truly was Toby Grout before him, all the pent-up rage he felt against those who had tormented him — his brother, Albert; his father, Lord Kirkle; the London police; Mr. Clemspool; Ralph Toggs; Mr. Murdock — all that rage exploded.

“The money!” he shrieked. “Give me that money!”

Panicked, Mr. Grout began to retreat into his room only to have Mr. Drabble haul him back.

“Mr. Grout,” the actor urged, “pray look and see for yourself. This is no ghost. Merely a wretched boy by the name of Laurence.”

“I know 'is name!” Mr. Grout cried. “Get 'im away!”

“Thief!” Laurence screamed as he bore down upon Mr. Grout. “Thief!”

“Mr. Grout, I assure you,” Mr. Drabble persisted as the one-eyed man struggled to get away, “this hapless boy is, like us, English and but newly arrived on the very same ship.”

“I'm beggin' yer,” Mr. Grout said, “take 'im away! I don't 'ave 'is money. It's gone!”

Laurence began to pummel Mr. Grout with his small fists. “The money!” he screamed. “Give me back the money!”

Hysterical, Mr. Grout waved his arms to protect himself from the rain of blows Laurence poured upon him. A lucky flail knocked the boy down. Sensing he was free, the one-eyed man fled from the room and sped along the hallway in search of escape but found only a dead end.

Laurence sprang up from the floor and attempted to pursue the man. Mr. Drabble blocked his way at the door.

“Mr. Grout, sir,” the actor called down the hallway. “I beg you, explain!”

Cowering in the corner, Mr. Grout cried, “That money I 'ad — all me riches — I took it from 'im.”

“From whom?”

“That there ghost!” Mr. Grout covered his face with his hands.

“Are you talking about this boy? But — I don't understand. Where? When?”

“In London.”

“London?” Mr. Drabble looked at Laurence closely, but all he could see was the familiar beggar of a boy.

Breaking from his grasp, Laurence charged upon Mr. Grout yet again. The one-eyed man sank to his knees and extended his massive hands toward the boy in desperate appeal. “I've repented,” he brayed. To prove it, he plunged a hand into a pocket, drew out his few remaining coins, and flung them to the floor.

“That's all I have,” he cried. “Take it. Tell me wot else to do, and I'll do it. just don't 'aunt me anymore!” So saying he prostrated himself upon the floor in abject submission.

Standing over the groveling man, Laurence felt his fury melt. Abruptly, he turned and, wanting only to escape, ran back down the hall.

Mr. Drabble caught him. Though Laurence fought to free himself, imploring, begging, pleading, the actor held fast until, exhausted, the boy collapsed.

As if Laurence were a sack of potatoes, the actor hauled him into Mr. Grout's room. Once again Laurence rallied, but when he realized his way to the door was blocked, he spun about, flung himself on one of the beds, and gave way to deep racking sobs of despair.

Pale and quaking, Mr. Grout poked his head around the door and stared at the boy.

Mr. Drabble beckoned him in. “Shut the door,” he whispered.

“Is it safe?”

“Of course it is!”

Mr. Grout crept forward.

“Lock the door.”

A terribly nervous Mr. Grout complied.

“Now sit down,” Mr. Drabble insisted, pointing to the empty bed. Mr. Grout did so, his gaze never leaving Laurence's shaking form.

Soon the sobs quieted, and the boy fell into a deep sleep, the only evidence of his misery being an occasional twitch.

Mr. Drabble sat upon the chair, but only after he had blown out the candle and trimmed the lamp low. Relit, it cast just enough illumination for the two men to see each other.

“Now, sir,” the actor said softly, soothingly, “you must inform me about all this.”

“Mr. Drabble,” murmured Mr. Grout, keeping one wary eye upon Laurence, “yer don't know the truth of me life.”

“Sir, I am prepared to listen.”

“It ain't pretty.”

“If you can speak it, sir, I am prepared to hear it. We are ‘poor but honest.'”

“'Onest, eh? 'Ear me tale, then yer can decide for yerself.”